


In Circles

by robotfvckers



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, I CANNOT BELIEVE I DIDN'T HAVE TO MAKE THE DOOMYATTA TAG BLESSED, M/M, Oral Sex, Size Difference, robovag, tagged noncon just to be safe, valveplug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 23:11:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11473629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotfvckers/pseuds/robotfvckers
Summary: After a close battle, Akande is determined to see what makes Zenyatta tick.





	In Circles

**Author's Note:**

> Blame the followers. They voted for this! /sweats

****“Why did you do it?” **  
**

His array flickers as he shifts. It’s difficult to move without his right arm, but he feels no pain. On the contrary, it seems much has been done to ensure his comfort. His clothes, tattered beyond repair, have been replaced by a red and gold dashiki. The room does not feel like a cell, with its cushioned chairs and large bed. There is even a painting on the wall, and a lone, high window where neon light filters in from the skyline.

His array returns to the man questioning him. He is unarmed, dressed casually, comfortable in the small space. Their fight had drawn long, and Zenyatta is in need of maintenance. Fully charged and both limbs intact, he could stand a chance.

But the fight is over, the victor decided.

Akande is patient. He does not so much as twitch while he waits for an answer, exuding the quiet stillness of an omnic. The more Zenyatta spends time with him, the more he realizes how dangerous he is.

With a lesser man, Zenyatta would lie.

He does not lie to Akande.

“I do not know.”

Akande clicks his tongue.

“You should have let the bomb kill me. It would have helped your cause, monk. You and your companions will suffer because of it.”

Zenyatta reviews the footage of their battle, takes note of his remaining energy balanced at 19.3 percent. He is patient too. He waits for Akande to make his point.

“You summoned great power. The feeling of it...indescribable.” Akande says, eyes mirroring the intensity he showed in battle. “The power of a god.” He leans forward, elbows planted on his massive thighs, flesh hand curled over metal.

Zenyatta goes still.

“I am not a god.” Zenyatta says. He shifts his legs to ease an overtaxed strut.  

The motion draws Akande’s gaze.

“Perhaps not. But you are its conduit.” He replies, eyes never leaving him. “A conduit that saved his enemy in the heat of battle.”

And so the topic circles. Zenyatta weighs his options.

He drags his legs towards his chest, folding into lotus, the dashiki bunched just below his hips.

Akande’s eyes settle like a weight. There is no mistaking that look.

“What is it about you,” he rumbles, “that would interest a god. Is it your body?” This is a game Zenyatta has never played, doesn’t know the rules. Akande stands. “Your soul?"

None of his large teammates have ever made him feel as small as he does now, cast in Akande’s shadow. The man’s expression reveals nothing, even highlighted by the teal lights of his array.

He feels the soft give of skin against his ankle, a gentle pull. Zenyatta lets himself be arranged. The bottom of his foot touches the floor. Akande moves him with care, like he is fragile, a counterpoint to the immense violence directed at him in battle. Akande nods while he surveys his work, Zenyatta’s legs spread the width of the chair. Background processes activate, unbidden, a warm, familiar heat settling behind his modesty panel.

How much did Akande know?

“I am afraid I do not have what you seek.”

“Oh? You are sure of this?”

Akande sinks to his knees.

Zenyatta jolts, and two huge fists, synthetic and organic, grip his knees.

“Keep yourself spread.” A command given by one who will not be denied.

Zenyatta feigns indifference as Akande’s hands trace up the smooth metal of his thighs, grazing sensitive wires and nodes, delicate things that would hurt if battered or crushed. They do not hurt now.

They do not hurt at all.

His hands continue upward, around his hips, carefully mapping between his cables, pressing wires, curling his fingers beneath finer paneling. His flesh hand dips into the gap at his hip, trails lower, inward.

Zenyatta moves, instinct outweighing logic, grabbing Akande’s wrist. The man laughs, low and victorious, smile sharp, eyes sharper as he stares into Zenyatta’s array.

“Have I found something, monk?” Akande murmurs, so close he can feel his breath against his chassis. “You will show me everything.”

He shifts his fingers, one large, calloused pad slipping deeper still. Zenyatta’s fingers sink into the armrest as Akande releases his modesty panel.

“Such a fine color. It suits you.”

Zenyatta trembles, Akande’s hand still so deep within his circuitry. One movement could ruin him. He waits for the man to rise, to drag him to the bed, to kneel, to be rendered powerless while the man takes his own pleasure.

The hand in his cables shifts upward to steady him as the first press of tongue catches against his valve.

Zenyatta startles, moves nowhere in the grip, fingers rending the cushions as feedback ricochets through his body.

Hot and wet, slippery, too much for his barely awakened systems.

“W-wait—!”

Akande smiles against him, mouthing at his soft teal folds, already smooth with slick, protocols requesting more when his tongue traces the edges of his softly illuminated nub. Pleasure blooms, fiendish in its intensity, and Zenyatta scrambles for the wires at his neck.

“Cease. I shall hear your cries.”

Zenyatta clamps his hand around his throat instead, muffling the singing of his own synth. Quiet, so quiet at first, as much energy as he can afford when Akande’s mouth begins to unravel him. Tiny, practiced swipes catch his clit, then shift lower, tongue fluttering around his opening in a way that has him straining.

He hums, high and hard, when that tongue flattens, sinks just inside of him, swiveling, tasting. Akande growls at the small gush of lubricant that spills over his mouth. He drags his metal hand between Zenyatta’s legs, the feel of cool metal startling more desperate sounds from his synth.

“I had thought piety had placed you in your god’s favor.” Akande muses, voice rough and pleased. “I can see now I was wrong.”

Akande descends upon him once more, catching Zenyatta’s clit more fully with his tongue, circling it; Zenyatta quakes, little chirps and groans tearing into harsher, louder sounds. When Akande’s full lips catch around it and suck, he flings his head back into the plushness of the chair, focus narrowing on that point of contact, straining and razed.

He licks and sucks, teasing off of him, kissing his thighs, his nodes when Zenyatta tries to angle away, squirming beneath that sinful tongue. His hand presses at Zenyatta’s entrance, tracing, petting, stimulating something deep without ever slipping inside. His fingers slip against him like silk, motions made slippery smooth by his own leaking body.

Pressure builds, quick and undeniable within, processes shutting down, body overclocking. Akande seems an unstoppable force, never tiring, licking, sucking, dragging more slick and sound from him than he thought possible. He can’t stay still, shaking, fogging up as he heats to dangerous levels, trapped beneath that tongue, catching against him so deliciously he grinds into it, wants more.

“Yes, monk, show me how you look when you come.” Akande orders into his thigh, wraps his lips around his clit, sucking in greedy little pulls, breath gasping over his aching body as his tongue flicks hot and heavy against him, unrelenting, maddening.

Zenyatta comes, his hand doing nothing to quell his clicks and whirs and chirps; his valve clenches, spills over Akande’s unceasing tongue, his lips, coating in teal. The gold of the Iris burns through his circuits, illuminating them in its aura, and the pleasure swells and crashes as he’s worked to pieces by his mouth, his gently prodding finger, whining and writhing, still trapped by the hand at his waist.

His array flickers online. He is not sure when it lost power. Still his lower body shivers, small glitches bubbling from his synth as Akande stares up his body, tasting with leisure, eyes dark and curious.

“You are full of mysteries. I wonder how many more I can uncover.” Akande murmurs against his twitching, soaked valve. “I suppose we shall see.”

**Author's Note:**

> For more fic and prompt requests, I'm on [tumblr](https://robotfvckers.tumblr.com).


End file.
